


we're shouting the scene where i swallow your heart

by mayerwien



Category: Dunkirk (2017), Dunkirk (2017) RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Dunkirk Little Ships Fest, Filming, Friends to Lovers, M/M, On Set, Slam Poetry, making a movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 11:50:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11966778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/pseuds/mayerwien
Summary: HARRY STYLES AND FIONN WHITEHEAD REUNITE TO STAR IN INDIE FILM “HOLD”BBC News • Entertainment & Arts • 3 hours agoDunkirkstars Fionn Whitehead and Harry Styles have been cast in the upcoming small-budget, romantic comedy-drama “Hold,” written and directed by Morgan Matthews. Musician and actor Styles has the lead role—an introverted camera-wielding teenager named Holden, who has not spoken aloud in five years, and who is struggling to adjust to life at home again after having been away at school. Whitehead will be playing Jimmy, a fiery spoken word poet and Styles’ character’s love interest.“After having worked together for so long, [Fionn and I] are really comfortable with each other,” said Styles, when asked about his onscreen romance with his former ‘comrade.’ “So I don’t think we see this as a challenge, exactly—more of just, a different kind of journey. We’re figuring out our characters’ dynamic together, growing together.”“Hold” will be in select theatres winter 2018.





	we're shouting the scene where i swallow your heart

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Dunkirk_Little_Ships_Fest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Dunkirk_Little_Ships_Fest) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  Harry has enjoyed acting so much that he's eager to get back into it. There are a few choices for him to audition for, he decides his luck with the gay rom com though, unaware that Fionn has auditioned as well.  
> They get chosen as the lead characters, obviously. Their chemistry on screen rubs off on them off screen. Bonus for confused boys, misunderstandings and pining.
> 
> \--
> 
> So this one kind of got away from me a teeny bit; “gay romcom” somehow morphed into “gay hipster coming-of-age movie,” and also I haven’t 100% followed Legit Screenplay Lingo and Format for the script bits, buuuut I hope you enjoy all the same, dear giftee! This prompt’s been a lot of fun. ☺ 
> 
> Title and epigraph quote from “Dirty Valentine” by Richard Siken, because who else is the king poet of gay hipster boys am i rite

There’s a part in the movie  
where you can see right through the acting…  
We know how the light works,  
we know where the sound is coming from.  
Verse. Chorus. Verse.  
I’m sorry. We know how it works. The world is no longer mysterious.

_\- Richard Siken_

 

* * *

 

HOLD

A film by Morgan Matthews

_SCENE: INTERIOR, the family dinner table. Everything is polished silver and white linen; everything neat and in its place._

 

**HOLDEN, V.O.**

It’s like this.

 

_Music narrows to a soft hum, a single sustained note—as the camera starts to pan around the table in slow motion._

 

At home, you’re a total mystery to your own family.

 

_Camera focuses on DAD, still in his work shirt; there are tired lines under his eyes, but he smiles as he eats and listens to the ongoing conversation, clearly hanging off every word._

A mystery to your dad, who works two jobs during the week and still comes into your room every night to ask how your day went.

 

_Focus on JOSEPHINE, eight years old, smiling and untroubled, making a sculpture out of the mashed potatoes on her plate as she chatters away._

To your little sister, who you hardly know, but who still wants to play Star Wars with you and teach you the names of the glow-in-the-dark constellations she’s stuck on her ceiling.

 

_Focus on MUM, frowning and reprimanding Josephine for playing with her food. Firmly, she takes the spoon from Jo’s hand and flattens out her potatoes, then hands the spoon back to Jo and tells her to eat properly._

 

To your mum, who seems even colder than you remember. Who pushes in on you from all sides, like in the movies, where the room is a trap and the walls just keep coming closer and closer.

 

_Focus finally on HOLDEN, holding his knife and fork and staring down at his plate. It’s obvious he hasn’t touched his food at all. He presses his lips together. His fingers tighten around his utensils._

At home, you don’t speak.

 

_Suddenly, the music changes to something loud and upbeat._

But when you’re out with the gang, everything’s different.

_SCENE CHANGE: INTERIOR, the noisy, messy living room of someone else’s flat, a complete 180 from what we’ve just witnessed. Coats, scarves, and empty bags of crisps are strewn on the sofa and on the floor. Holden is with friends now—JIMMY, BELLE, TAP, and SAGE. The five of them are dancing to the music, laughing, spinning each other around._

**HOLDEN, V.O.**

They burn like a flame, and you’re the moth. Completely hypnotized by their light, swept up in a tidal wave of their heartbeats.

 

_A familiar rock song starts playing, and all of them start to sing along—except Holden. He doesn’t even mouth the words—but he’s still smiling, looking around at them all, clearly just as in the moment as they are._

 

And you still don’t speak—but they don’t expect you to. They love your quiet. They see it as a part of you, not an indication that something’s missing. You’re still a mystery, but they don’t want to solve you. They like it. It’s okay.

 

_Slow motion. Close shot of Jimmy, dancing and singing along to the music. Then close shot of Holden’s face as he watches Jimmy, looking as though he’s just been struck by lightning._

 

It’s more than okay.

 

_Jimmy turns to look at Holden, laughing. Holden relaxes and finally, smiles back._

 

It’s everything.

 

* * *

  

**HARRY STYLES AND FIONN WHITEHEAD REUNITE TO STAR IN INDIE FILM “HOLD”**

BBC News • Entertainment & Arts • 3 hours ago

_Dunkirk_ stars Fionn Whitehead and Harry Styles have been cast in the upcoming small-budget, romantic comedy-drama “Hold,” written and directed by Morgan Matthews. Musician and actor Styles has the lead role—an introverted camera-wielding teenager named Holden, who has not spoken aloud in five years, and who is struggling to adjust to life at home again after having been away at school. Whitehead will be playing Jimmy—a fiery spoken word poet and Styles’ character’s love interest.

“After having worked together for so long, [Fionn and I] are really comfortable with each other,” said Styles, when asked about his onscreen romance with his former ‘comrade.’ “So I don’t think we see this as a challenge, exactly—more of just, a different kind of journey. We’re figuring out our characters’ dynamic together, growing together.”

“It’s refreshing that Harry’s got to be the silent one for a change,” joked Whitehead. “My character pushes his buttons quite a bit in this film, so it’s been great fun. The poetry slam scenes are just exhilarating as well—I think we’re all going to be really proud of this one.”

“Hold” also stars fellow _Dunkirk_ alum Tom Glynn-Carney, as well as Whitehead’s former _Natives_ castmate Ella Purnell, and Sharon Rooney of _Mad Fat Diary_ fame. As the film revolves around the London spoken word scene, poets Caleb Femi and Kate Tempest, among others, will be making cameo appearances.

“We have a beautiful script, an incredible cast, incredible chemistry,” says director Matthews, who is best known for his documentary work such as _Beautiful Young Minds,_ but who has also previously made ventures into fiction, as with the 2014 dramedy _X+Y._ Matthews says he got the idea for this film after delving into the world of spoken word for a TV movie documentary he was executive producer on. “I’m very pleased to be working with such vibrant young actors, and to be telling a story I’m so excited about.”

“Hold” will be in select theatres winter 2018.

 

* * *

 

After the album tour, Harry had sat down and had a good long think about what he wanted to do next. What he realized, somewhat to his own surprise, was that he missed acting and wanted to get back into it—nothing huge this time, just a small, intimate project. His agent had sniffed around and come back to him saying there was a new indie film that had put out a casting call—something about gay poets in college, and was he interested?

(He’d practically broken the speed limit to get to the audition venue, but that was for him and the parking assistant to know, and no one else.)

“Well, well,” Harry laughed, when he walked in and saw Fionn Whitehead sitting in the other chair, just like deja vu. “Look who the hell it is.”

Fionn’s face lit up. “You bastard,” he said, getting to his feet and pulling Harry into a hug. They hadn’t seen each other since the end of _Dunkirk_ press junket, back in July. Fionn always used to joke about being scrawny, but that’s definitely not true now—he’s gotten broader in the past year, no longer looking fresh out of teenagedom like a gangly fawn. “Couldn’t bear to leave some spotlight for the rest of us, could you?”

“Nope,” Harry said, smiling into Fionn’s shoulder and tightening his arms around his midsection. “The rumors are all true; I’m just a horrible, self-centered attention-seeker. Also, I’m planning on knocking on your hotel room door later at 2 AM to ask you if you want to hook up.”

“Ass,” Fionn said, slapping him on the back before pulling away.

They both took turns reading for several different parts that day, but one thing was obvious: they tested well together. Getting cast as the two leads, as far as Harry was concerned, was just the icing on the getting-to-be-in-a-movie-with-Finnley-again cake. And now here they are—squeezed into a tiny, darkened bar in Central London together with forty extras, filming the first poetry slam scene.

Harry’s certain that between the lights and the crush of people, his hair is limp and unappealing and he’s sweated off all his makeup—which, he supposes, adds to the realism of the thing. While they’re waiting to start, he plays with the DSLR camera slung around his neck, bouncing it gently in his hands.

“Drop that and you’re dead,” Fionn drawls, from where he’s leaning against the corner wall. He’s wearing his character’s signature black leather jacket, while Harry’s stuffed into a suede-and-shearling bomber; it’s unclear at this point which of them is suffering more.

Grinning, Harry looks up at Fionn and pretends to hurl the camera at him. Fionn just sighs and shakes his head with a half-mock, half-real exasperation that Harry’s all too familiar with. “You’re _actually_ twelve,” he says.

“Shush,” Harry says. “Don’t tell anyone. The child labor laws in film are very strict.”

Ella, Sharon, and Tom, fresh from makeup and wardrobe, step over the wires on the floor and edge around the lights toward them. Sharon takes one look at Harry and Fionn and loses it. “No, it’s, you’re _adorable,”_ she explains through her laughter, fanning her eyes so her mascara won’t run. “Adorable hipster children in your adorable hipster clothes. Promise me you’ll never take those off, ever.”

Harry looks sadly down at his feet, which the costume designer has clad in a pair of stressed white Keds. “But I miss my boots,” he says in a mournful voice.

“Actually, I’m surprised they didn’t let you wear any of your real clothes,” Ella remarks, gesturing to her own outfit. “Like, all of this is just stuff I pulled from my closet at home.”

Fionn smirks, while Harry wails and puts his hands over his face. “Apparently, they told Harry any of his real clothes would be ‘too recognizable’ and ‘distract viewers from the character’,” Fionn says.

“Ah, the price of fame.” Tom shakes his head and pats Harry’s shoulder. “Tough luck, mate. That’s what you get for having an aesthetic.”

“Okay, guys, we’re ready,” Morgan calls from the director’s chair, as the crew members get to their stations, moving lights and adjusting microphones, and the music starts up—a low, ambient pulse. Harry walks his sad bootless feet over to Ella, who links her arm in his. “Rolling. Marker,” Morgan says. “And—action.”

“Everyone, this is my neighbor, Holden.” Ella reaches up to ruffle Harry’s hair. “Introduce yourselves, losers.”

“I’m Sage.” Sharon grins and waggles her fingers. Morgan let her keep her Scottish accent for this film, and it only serves to let Sharon’s natural verve shine through even more. “The oldie. Getting my masters in creative writing, so spoken word is like, my secret double life.” Harry gives her a thumbs-up.

“Tap,” Tom says, extending a hand. Harry makes a slightly bewildered face as he shakes it. “Archie, actually, but everyone calls me Tap, ‘cause I dance. Definitely not a poet, ha—this lot just lets me tag along.”

Harry looks at Fionn next. He’s still leaning into the corner, arms crossed; he doesn’t wave, and only offers the barest hint of a smile. “Jimmy,” Fionn says, above the music. “The known anti-social one. Don’t take it personally.”

Rolling her eyes, Ella slowly lets go of Harry, her French-manicured fingers uncurling from his sleeve. “Right, Tap and I are doing the first drinks run. Who wants what?”

“Just a Pepsi, thanks, Belle,” Sharon says. “You know me, no alcohol before a performance.”

“And you know me, I’ll have anything before a performance,” Fionn says carelessly. “Whatever looks like it could potentially kill me is fine.”

Harry pulls out his prop phone and types into the notes, showing the screen to Ella. “Brewdog,” she reads. “Got it. Oi, you two be nice to H, okay? _Especially_ you, Jim.” Fionn throws his hands in the air incredulously. “C’mon, love,” Ella says, turning to Tom, and they walk out of view of the camera, arm in arm.

“Hey, erm, I’m just gonna go up front, check the performance order,” Sharon says cheerily, thumbing towards the stage. “Be back in a tick.” She exits too, leaving Harry and Fionn standing there, regarding each other warily.

The fact that Harry’s character in the film doesn’t talk at all has been a little bit of a challenge; he has to rely entirely on body language and facial expressions, all subtle enough so they seem natural, but still definite enough that you know what he’s thinking. Often, Morgan gives him the comment that he looks too angry, even though that wasn’t what Harry was trying to do at all—it’s somehow just the face he gets when he’s enmeshed in thought, so deep into imagining what Holden is feeling in a particular moment.

 _Pretend this is awkward. Fionn is a total stranger and you don’t like the way he’s looking at you,_ Harry thinks, as he fiddles with the camera straps and blinks back at Fionn in the neon darkness. Pretending this part is hardly difficult, though—the detached expression on Fionn’s face is utterly alien to him, and Harry feels a slight chill as he thinks, not for the first time, what a good actor Fionn is.

“So. _Holden.”_ Fionn cocks an eyebrow. “Please don’t tell me you’re named after who I think you are.”

Harry takes a deep breath, pretends to type into his phone again, and shows Fionn the note on the screen. The second unit director will get a shot, later, of what the note is supposed to say. _Mum’s an American lit professor. She claims it’s not because of the book, it’s just because she liked the name, but alas—I am what she made me. The ‘gets kicked out of school’ bit, anyway._

Fionn grins for the first time, makes a scoffing noise. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a little sister named Phoebe.”

_No, thank god. Little sister’s name is Jo. As in Jo March._

“Jesus.” Fionn laughs openly. “No, that’s cute.” He pauses. “Belle says you’re a photographer?” In response, Harry lifts his camera and snaps a picture of Fionn, the shutter going off with a beep-click.

“Cut! Sorry, guys, that was really good—just that I think the backdrop on stage is starting to sag.” Morgan cranes his head around the camera with an apologetic wince, indicating the drooping _COME ON AND SLAM_ poster at the front of the room. “Can we get someone to fix that please—and then Fionn, Harry, can we do your conversation from the top?”

“Got it,” Harry calls, then glances sideways at Fionn. “Last one to the stage has to do five body shots off Tom,” he says out of the corner of his mouth.

Fionn blinks. “Five what?” he asks, but Harry’s already racing up front, so Fionn will have no choice but to run after him. “Wait, no, guys, we’ve got _crew_ for this,” Morgan protests, but they’re already on the stage.

Carefully, Harry reaches up for the top left corner of the poster and retapes it; he can do this without a problem, but in his peripheral vision, he notices Fionn is tiptoeing slightly. There’s something about it that makes Harry feel strangely warm and fuzzy. He tilts his head at Fionn. “Have you never done a body shot?”

Fionn colors a little. “I have done,” he says huffily, slapping his palm against the tarp and smoothing it down, “plenty of other things. I didn’t realize there was an official checklist.”

Grinning, Harry points a finger towards the bar. “When this scene is over, I will go back there and find a salt shaker, empty the entire thing over Tom’s arm, and have you lick it clean in preparation for the bottle of tequila I’m going to pour down your throat,” he says, as they dust their hands off, hop off the stage, and cross back to their places. “We have _five years_ of neglect to make up for, Finnegan.”

Fionn looks him in the eyes, dead serious. “What if it’s not Tom’s arm I want to be licking?” he asks, his voice throaty and low.

Harry chokes, because he’s genuinely surprised—then tries to cover it up by exaggeratedly clutching his chest like a scandalized grandmother. “Wash your mouth out with soap and go to your room,” he orders, shaking his finger at Fionn.

Fionn just laughs and shakes his head, looking forward at the lit stage, then back at Harry. “God, I’ve missed working with you,” he says unexpectedly. The corners of his mouth quirk upward, into what Harry calls one of his Fionn-smiles—rare but lingering, always with a tinge of something like awe.

Instead of answering, Harry raises the camera and takes about ten consecutive photos of Fionn. Mostly to shield himself from that smile, which is doing something to the pit of his stomach that he doesn’t want to investigate too closely right now.

“All right, are we good? Nothing sagging anywhere it shouldn’t be? No more actors trying to put the production assistants out of business?” Morgan teases. Everyone chuckles, while Harry makes an apologetic bowing gesture in Morgan’s direction. “Right, let’s try that once more. And we’re rolling—marker—action.”

They restart the scene, lines Harry knows so well by now they’re like a bass line in his head. Fionn says, “Don’t tell me you’ve got a little sister named Phoebe.” Pretend to type, show him the phone. Fionn laughs again, real as Harry’s ever heard it, his eyes going bright like stars. “Jesus. No, that’s cute.”

 _You’re cute,_ Harry thinks, a bolt from the blue—but because Holden doesn’t talk, he doesn’t say it out loud.

 

* * *

 

 

**JIMMY**

D’you really want to know? Why I couldn’t go to the party yesterday? _(Holden nods.)_

I was at my doctor’s. Test results came back conclusive.

 

_Holden looks at him. Waiting._

 

**JIMMY**

I’m dying, Hold.

 

_A beat. Holden continues to watch Jimmy’s face._

 

**JIMMY**

Doctor says I’ve only got two months. Three, if I’m lucky. It won’t be so bad, I’ll just…get weaker and weaker.

 

_Slowly, Holden reaches out for Jimmy’s hand._

 

**JIMMY**

(bursts out laughing) I’m _joking!_

 

_Holden stares. Jimmy keeps laughing._

 

**JIMMY**

Oh my fucking god. You should see your face—

 

_Holden starts hitting Jimmy—at first slapping his arm with open palms, then pounding his closed fists on his chest. Jimmy stops laughing and starts trying to avoid the blows._

 

**JIMMY**

Ow, _ow!_ What the fuck, mate?

 

_Holden keeps hitting him, becoming increasingly wilder. Jimmy tries to fend him off, then grabs Holden’s wrists._

 

**JIMMY**

Hey. Hey. I didn’t mean—

 

_Holden finally stops, but he’s breathing hard, his eyes full of hurt and distrust._

 

**JIMMY**

Christ. I didn’t know you were going to be like—I don’t know what—just, I’m sorry.

 

_Holden looks at him for a long time before reaching out and clearly writing two letters on Jimmy’s knee with his finger—‘O-K.’_

**JIMMY**

Are you?

 

 _Holden hesitates. Then he pulls out his phone and types a brief message on it before handing it to Jimmy. Jimmy looks down and reads what’s on the screen_ —“Are any of us?”

 

**JIMMY**

Ha. _(Leans back and looks towards the street, where the cars are passing by.)_ Fair point.

 

* * *

 

It takes Harry a few more days to figure out what’s changed. Fionn’s still impeccably Fionn—mostly quiet, never wasteful with his words; witty, and honest to a fault—but that prickly awkwardness, that occasional tendency to shrink back from touch that he had when they first met, is all but gone now. He’s more self-assured; more capable of bouncing off jokes with ease and serving them right back, and _meaning_ it.

Harry’s not even sure if he likes it. All he knows is he wants to see more of it.

Getting actual alone time with anyone in the main cast is no easy feat. Though Morgan runs a fairly tight ship, he wants the kids, as he calls them, to be able to hang out as much as possible—and so the five of them have all gotten used to moving as a constantly chattering, giggling, bantering unit. But if there’s one thing Harry’s good at, it’s making someone feel special in a crowd.

Harry knows how Fionn takes his coffee—two creams, no sugar—so he takes the liberty of making it for him at the long breakfast table that morning. Their call time isn’t until nine, so they have time to eat and relax before then. Ella is currently splayed out on the floor with her head on Sharon’s knee, Sharon is alternating between texting and using her phone screen as a mirror so she can do her lipstick, and Tom is building a precarious-looking tower on his plate with slices of jelly roll. “Good moooorning,” Harry sings as he slides across the floor towards the sofa, where Fionn is lying facedown in the cushions.

 _“Stopppp,”_ Fionn moans, voice muffled through the velvet. “It’s too _early_ for your brand of insufferable chipperness.”

Harry cackles softly and pets Fionn’s hair, before touching the warm coffee cup gently to Fionn’s cheek. “C’mon, uppy. They’ll be calling us to wardrobe soon.”

“Mmmh. ‘Ight.” Without lifting his head, Fionn extends his hand and blindly feels for the cup. Unsurprisingly, he misses, his fingertips trailing down Harry’s wrist. A tiny electric tingle runs through Harry, and he bites back an inhale. “Sorry,” Fionn mumbles. “I tried.”

“Aw, look at the poor sleepy baby,” Ella coos, crawling over to the foot of the sofa and tickling Fionn’s ankle, while Sharon scoots up next to her and sticks her hand blithely into Fionn’s armpit. He still doesn’t move.

“Allow me,” Tom says, and keels over backward onto the sofa right on top of Fionn. Fionn makes a loud startled-walrus noise, his head snapping up, and they all burst out laughing. Sliding off the sofa, Tom lands next to Sharon, looking pleased with himself, while Fionn finally sits up with daggers in his eyes. Harry’s still laughing as he settles back on his haunches, his fingers still wrapped around the untouched coffee cup.

It’s not method acting, exactly—but when Harry notices the rest of the cast having a moment, sometimes he likes to retreat behind a little wall in his mind, and just watch them. Stepping back allows him to see things he might otherwise miss, and that’s how he’s come to notice that Sharon dances to herself when she walks, the way other people sing to themselves, and that Tom chews on his lower lip when he’s tired or tense—and that Ella and Fionn have something special after having been friends for so long, something easy and open and effortless.

Reaching up, Ella pulls Fionn down onto the floor with the rest of them. “You’re being a beast,” she tells him, as he glowers at her.

 _“I_ am?” Fionn demands. “How, pray tell, am _I_ the beast in this situation?”

Ella doesn’t respond, just raises her eyebrows and stares steadily back at him, until Fionn seems to relent. He tweaks Ella’s nose and gets up. “Hey, thanks for the coffee,” Fionn says to Harry, holding his hand out. Perplexed, Harry gives him the cup, not sure at all what transpired in the brief wordless conversation he just witnessed.

Fionn takes a sip and glances over his shoulder at Ella. “Weren’t we going to send Manish that birthday Chatsnap?” he asks. “Whatsnap. Thing.”

Ella slaps herself on the forehead. “Right.” She stands too, wobbles slightly, then leans on Harry’s shoulder so she can reach down to adjust the strap of her high-heeled shoe. “Thanks, love,” she says, beaming, before following Fionn around the corner, aimlessly punching his upper arm as they go.

Harry studies the two of them as they walk away. They do look good together, he thinks, and they get along fantastically well. If that’s the case, he’s happy for Fionn.

He doesn’t miss that Tom and Sharon, still sitting up against the sofa, are exchanging a look. “What?” Harry asks.

“Nothing,” Tom says, while giving him a You Know And I Know It’s Not Actually Nothing smile.

Harry narrows his eyes at him in a We’ll Discuss This Later frown. “Come on, Sharon,” he chirps in Marcel voice, pulling Sharon to her feet, taking her by the shoulders and steering her toward her dresser chair. “Today, _I’m_ your makeup artist. I’ve been told I do a mean daytime smokey eye.”

 

Later that evening, the film crew leaves the studio again and goes out into the city, to shoot what everyone has taken simply to calling The Tesco Scene. In it, Holden and Jimmy are doing some late-night shopping, snacks and drinks for the party back at Sage’s flat. They’re alone in the store, joking around while carelessly tossing bottles into their basket—then the air between them shifts, somehow, and they kiss for the first time. The production team has arranged for the entire street front to be blocked off, so that no passersby can even watch them from outside the window.

“This here is what’s called a liminal space,” Harry remarks while they’re setting up for the next shot, spreading his arms wide and rotating on the spot. They’re surrounded by aisles empty of people, cool and gleaming; as it’s the end of the day, the shelves are half-stocked, adding to the strange, off-kilter feeling. “Places at times when they’re not behaving like they’re supposed to.”

Fionn looks around too, and Harry can tell he’s considering this. One of the things the two of them like most about each other is that even though they often don’t see the world the same way, they always make a genuine effort to, for each other’s sake. “Is it like—when I was a kid, I remember, one night we were doing the shopping and lost track of time,” Fionn says. “So we caught a late dinner at this Italian restaurant we always went to, that I loved. But when we got there, the kitchen was just about to close, and they _just_ let us in because they knew us so well.”

Gazing past Harry, Fionn kneads his hands together, warming them in the artificial chill of the store. “And my dad was saying _aren’t we lucky, they’re so kind,_ and he ordered me spaghetti and garlic bread, like always. But I remember not being able to eat, and absolutely hating it, and I couldn’t explain it at the time, but…it was because the restaurant was so—huge and empty, like it was a dead thing, and the world around us was ending, and I just wanted to get out of there and go home.”

Harry blinks, his breath hitching in his chest. Though it’s a long-ago memory, he can’t help but feel a sudden pang for that younger Fionn, feeling lost and helpless without being able to say why. “Yeah, no, exactly,” he says, then pauses. “D’you think that’s what growing up is? Realizing the world isn’t as vast and scary and out of control as all that, and that a restaurant at closing time is just a restaurant at closing time?”

“Maybe.” Fionn pauses. “But then I also think, giving yourself over to unsettling feelings like that—that’s brave. When you’re a kid you just can’t _help_ feeling it, you know? But when you’re an adult, you can choose to either wall yourself off from that vulnerability, or let it in. That’s what I think about, sometimes, doing—” He makes an inclusive outward sweep with his arms, to mean _all of this._ “I’m not so much consciously pretending as I am…letting things in again.”

Before Harry can open his mouth in attempt to say—something, he’s not even sure what—Morgan calls for them to take their marks. “Just so you know we haven’t, ah, rehearsed this bit yet,” Harry admits, making loose back-and-forth gestures between Fionn and himself.

“That’s okay,” Morgan says reassuringly. “It’s supposed to be a little awkward, you’re—learning how to navigate each other for the first time. Don’t think too much about it; just keep going unless I say otherwise.”

“Okay.” Harry shakes some of the tension out of his arms and turns to face Fionn, who grins as he puts his hands securely on Harry’s waist.

“I’m going to eat your face now,” Fionn says. Under the lights, the faint hollows in his cheeks are more pronounced, and his lashes cast shadows underneath his eyes—gentle dark circles that Harry feels a sudden, gentle need to smooth away with his thumb.

“I give you full permission to eat my face,” Harry replies solemnly, and Fionn laughs, crinkly and quiet.

And then the camera’s rolling, and Fionn reaches one hand up to catch Harry’s jaw and kisses him. It’s soft at first, just the slightest pressure of Fionn’s mouth against his—then grows into something more insistent as Fionn breathes in sharply and grips the lapels of his coat, walking him backward. The hard edge of the shelf presses into Harry’s back, but he ignores it; Fionn’s face is tilted upwards, to make up for their slight difference in height, so Harry has to bend his head to kiss him back.

“Six,” Harry says, after Morgan says _cut_ and they’ve pulled away.

“What?” Fionn runs a hand absently through his hair, still panting slightly, his lips a fresh-bitten pink.

“Out of ten.” Harry holds six fingers up and grins widely.

Fionn whacks him on the arm. “Get out,” he says, and Harry throws his head back and laughs.

Later, Harry will think that he felt strangely pragmatic about the experience while it was happening. It’s only when he’s going to bed and replaying it in his head that the enormity of it comes back to him. It shouldn’t mean anything, though; Harry’s kissed friends before, sometimes on dares, sometimes because he liked them, sometimes because the two of them were drunk and just wanted to try it.

It shouldn’t be any different when the friend is Fionn—should be even _less_ different, because this is just work. But all the disparate things are tangling together in his mind now, friends and Fionn and acting and kissing—and some small part of him wonders if they’re not so disparate after all, whether they don’t all point to the same thing.

 _No,_ Harry thinks firmly, because he’s all too acquainted with the way his heart is currently thudding in his chest. He tells himself it’s just his body playing tricks on him, reacting to the coffee he had earlier this afternoon. Rolling over and clicking the lights off, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to banish the sensation of Fionn’s fingertips on the side of his chin. Harry _knows_ what’s real and what’s pretend; he’s a professional actor now. This isn’t his first rodeo around the block. His first go around the ring.

Whatever the expression is. He’ll figure it out when he wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest prompter/giftee, I am so sorry to break this up into chapters but I didn't want the post date to go by without showing you something! I promise this fic is all outlined and the rest is coming!!!!!


End file.
